


Not My Type

by Strawberry_Sweetheart



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M, References to Domestic Violence, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, and Billy is learning that he doesn’t deserve it, billy hargrove learns how to love softly, but I tried to make them mild, but again its more alluding to it than in detail, depictions of violence, neil is trash, reference to sex, steve Harrington is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 14:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21735835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Sweetheart/pseuds/Strawberry_Sweetheart
Summary: Billy has a type.He liked guys with a bit of fire to them, a bit of something mean, a bit of that same restlessness that he felt. He liked them brutal and unforgiving, able to keep pace with him side by side feeling like an unstoppable force ready to burn down the world in an uncontrollable wildfire. It was fun, exhilarating, the way that there was no room for softness, the way that teasing ended up on the crueler side of the spectrum, the way that life happened in quick spurts jumping from one moment to the next, each unpredictable and new and chasing away the mundane of life.Steve Harrington is not his type.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 11
Kudos: 295





	Not My Type

**Author's Note:**

> So, writing my other story, Mans Best Friend, is kinda hard cuz I write Steve’s POV as a steam of consciousness, and that’s completely not my style SO I’m letting some steam out and writing a fix from Billy’s POV

Billy had a type. 

And it wasn’t Steve Harrington. 

He’s had a few hookups with guys, and even fewer more-than-hookups with guys, but they all resembled each other in more than one way.

He liked guys with a bit of fire to them, a bit of something mean, a bit of that same restlessness that he felt. He liked them brutal and unforgiving, able to keep pace with him side by side feeling like an unstoppable force ready to burn down the world in an uncontrollable wildfire. It was fun, exhilarating, the way that there was no room for softness, the way that teasing ended up on the crueler side of the spectrum, the way that life happened in quick spurts jumping from one moment to the next, each unpredictable and new and chasing away the mundane of life.

Steve Harrington is not his type.

He heard of this king that lived in his tower high able everyone else, a dragon and not a Prince Charming, that liked to drink and smoke and fuck and spit out unforgiving bitter words as easy as breathed. And maybe this king was more his type. He thought he saw it, that flicker of a flame he so desperately sought out, there in his eyes at some party that reeked of beer and sweat. There for a moment and gone the next. Disappointing. Disappointing the way he chased and pushed trying to get something, ignite anything, out of the only promise that Hawkins _wasn’t_ a sleepy little town, that it wasn’t filled with copy-paste individuals, only to get absolutely nothing. 

Billy wanted to play with fire, he wanted to burn, but all he got was the dimming light of a dying flame. Gone bitch, Harrington?  
——

Steve Harrington was not his type. 

His type was ruthless, with a bite as damaging as the bark. Steve Harrington has trouble keeping his feet firmly to the ground. His stance is open and vulnerable, fists curled dumbly in a foreign position, someone unused to violent confrontation. Was Byers the first to swing at the King, the first to fall out of line and strike back? His hits are blunt and lack the force to hurt, cotton soft against his jaw, easy to take. The easiest to take. And Billy has taken a lot in his life. 

A moment of pleasure, finally feeling the licks of a flame, “Guess there’s some fire in you after all?”

A memory of self-disgust. A stumbling dazed body skidding across the floor. Frantic hands gripping his shirt, crumpling the fabric, not knowing how to get him to stop _get him to stop_... A pliant body, limp beneath him, all the fight gone. Panicked yells as he watched — enjoyed — the way his slack face caved beneath his fists, rocking side to side — 

Waking up alone, his heart beating rapidly, looking around an empty unfamiliar house half convinced he’s going to turn and see the remains of a beaten corpse. Waking up to the taste of bile on his tongue. 

——

He takes everything his dad gives him. He accepts every hit, every punch, every kick, without a word of complaint. Just takes and feels the paigne of hurt, harbors and feeds it.

_I deserve this, I deserve this, I deserve this_ — 

I don't deserve him.

Steve Harrington is not his type. 

Steve Harrington sometimes looks at him with displaced pity and Billy almost wishes it was hate instead because this, this look absent of hate and fear, is too close to a forgiveness he does not deserve. 

He’s used to retaliation, expects it and craves it when he can’t stop pushing, and it leaves him waiting, waiting for Steve to do something, _for the love of God do something, please_. But it never comes. When he passes him in the halls, his gaze never meets Billy’s, but it’s never pointed downward either. He keeps his eyes ahead of him in a way that showcases that no, he’s not submitting or broken or beaten, he’s not posturing or looking for redemption, it’s just… 

He walks dignified, a bit like royalty. Someone who’s picked themselves off the ground and brushed off the dirt one too many times. Someone who keeps getting up. Chin held high with long confident strides, unbothered, so unbothered, a silent type of resilience. 

Somehow that… that feels like forgiveness and Billy knows where they stand. He finds himself with his own shoulders a little less tense, his mind a little more at peace, unbothered almost, and when he’s clutching at his bruised ribs at night, he picks himself off the floor because Steve, of all people, has shown him what resistance is. And Steve makes it look so easy. It’s not. It’s unfairly difficult to wipe at his wet cheeks and brush off the dirt without clinging to the hate and letting the anger consume him the way that he’s become so used to begging for because it’s what makes him feel _alive_ —

He wakes up and extinguishes his fire. He still feels that hate, that anger, every morning that sees his dad reading the newspaper and drinking his coffee. But it’s not, urgent, anymore. He doesn’t let it consume him, he just feels it and keeps walking. He walks, and for the first time, it’s without the need to have to _prove_ something. Because he’s learning that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t deserve this.

Steve Harrington is not his type.

Where Billy would prefer sharp angles, Steve has none. He’s jaw is wide and squared but not jagged. His brow bone is prominent, but his gaze is soft with the roundness of his eyes. His irises are dark, but not malevolent, they’re deep. Warm. Billy isn’t used to that. He’s used to looking into cutting gazes, cold and challenging. He’s used to hands that grip him tight, unafraid to hurt, used to hurt, gripping tight to add more bruises on top of the ones he already has. He’s used to smiles that are sharp around the corners, teeth like canines biting into lips until they bleed. He’s used to short fused tempers and guys with limited patience. Guys who drink their fill and leave without fixing the breaks they make.

Steve Harrington is not his type. He comes back. Idiot that he is, he comes to Billy like he didn’t have his face swollen for weeks, like the mess from that night is so easy to pick and tidy up, to make it clean. He spends the summer at the community pool and skirts around awkward conversations with him until it’s not awkward at all and then does it the next day and the next. Steve takes this broken something between them from the nothing that they where and fumbles it in his hands until the pieces mend and meld together into something completely new. And his hands are soft. They hover shy over skin, quiet as they ask for their silent permission to be allowed to touch, and he touches so gentle. Never with the intention to bruise, but to feel and ground one another. The bruises on his hips are never made with a show of force or power, they’re not a call for a challenge. They’re made in a desperation to hold and never let go _never let go, please, don’t let me go_. 

Steve isn’t golden tan or smell like the salt from Californian beaches. He kisses over his pale skin that refuses to let the sun tint it bronze, that burns cherry red so easily in the rays. He drags his tongue over every dip and valley, carves it into his memory until he can drag his fingers over every inch of his body and read him like braille. When Billy buries his nose against Steve’s neck, behind his ear where his scent is the strongest, he breathes in the smell of _Steve_: salted caramel and coffee. And on nights when he loves him hard enough, thoroughly enough, he’ll smell like Billy, too. 

Steve wasn’t his type, and yet Billy finds himself waking up with his chest warm from where a mop of unruly brown hair lies and shirt slightly damp from where said mop of hair is drooling. He doesn’t need to guess, doesn’t need to worry, about how Steve will react when they have a couples spat or when Billy breaks a mug or when Billy says he wants space, because Steve understands and Steve listens. Steve is predictable and steady, a sure thing that makes him unafraid to love him — to plan a _future_ with him.

They’re not the type of couple that will light a match and watch the world burn. But they’ll sleep through the end of time entangled in one another.


End file.
